


Life and other audacities

by Quadratur



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlets, Friendship, Gen, Grief, M/M, snippts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:54:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1348168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quadratur/pseuds/Quadratur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of snippets and ficlets. Some will be gen, others slash. Various pairings. Maybe even a few AUs.<br/>Chapter 1: Aftermath (Azanulbizar)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life and other audacities

**Author's Note:**

> After Azanulbizar. Dwalin finds Balin and Thorin.  
> Might be read a Dwalin & Thorin friendship or implied Dwalin/Thorin. Up to you, dearest reader.

Dwalin finds Balin in front of the royal tent. Relieved, he drags Balin into a hard hug and for a long moment doesn’t let go. It helps that Balin holds him just as tightly. Physically Balin might be smaller than him, but he’s still Dwalin’s big brother and his embrace brings some comfort.

Adad?” he finally asks, already fearing the worst.

Balin closes his eyes and shakes his head. Dwalin swallows the sobs rising in his throat down and just tightens his arms around Balin. Their mother lost in Erebor, their father now at Azanulbizar. They are all that is left. It might be undignified but he just wants to cling while his brother tells him that everything will be fine. For a long moment Balin just holds him, his hands strong and sure on Dwalin’s back. Finally he takes a shuddering breath and pulls away. There are still things that need seeing to.

“Thorin?”

“Inside. Resting.” Balin says. The glance he gives the tent is fully of worry and barely concealed pain. For a moment Balin looks tired and old and Dwalin’s lungs feel to small and there’s a frozen iron fist around his heart.  
Finally Balin squares his shoulders—strong big brother, always ready to face the world and do what must be done.

“Go, see to the Prince. He needs a friend. I will see if they’ve found Thráin yet.”

Dwalin allows Balin to push him towards the tent and doesn’t envy his older brother. Thrór dead. Fundin dead. Frerin dead. Thráin missing, but maybe, hopefully still alive. Maybe a prisoner on the Orcs. Dwalin doesn’t want to think about what that would mean. How do they go on from here? What if Thráin stays missing? Or they find him dead as well? For once he’s glad that their father never pushed him into politics and diplomacy.  
Dwalin ducks into the tent and isn’t surprised to seen an exhausted looking Oin standing next to a cot. And when he sees Thorin— too pale and with tear-tracks on his face—something inside him unclenches and he’s finally able to breathe again.

“How is he?” he asks Oin, who’s now frowning at him while he pours something hot into a cup. The smell of herbs briefly fills the tent.

“I’ve given him something to help him sleep,” Oin grumbles and then pushes the steaming cup of something herbal-smelling into Dwalin’s hand. “Here, drink.”

Distrustfully eying the content of cup, Dwalin doesn’t pull away when Oin inspects the cut at the right side of his head that goes through his eyebrow and across the bridge of his nose. He’s lucky because he managed to twist away and keep his eye and nose.

“I’m fine. Just bruises and scratches,” he offers and neglects to mention how bone-deep tired he feels, though he doubts that he will be able to sleep. Oin just grunts and prods the cut, before he dabs something on it. It stings, but Dwalin barely notices it.

“This scratch is going to leave a nice scar,” Oin points out, his fingers gentle on the bridge of Dwalin’s nose.

Dwalin just shrugs. Scars are part of a warrior’s life. Some even view them as a badge of honor, especially if they were visible. He’d done the same at one point. Right now though he can see nothing honorable in them. Just death and blood and pain and loss. He allows Oin to push him unto the chair next to Thorin’s cot and takes a sip of Oin’s concoction. It smells better than it tastes, but he takes another sip while he stares at Thorin. Even asleep Thorin looks haunted whoever helped him clean did a poor job. There are still tear-tracks on his face, cutting through the remaining blood and gore. A bruise is already blossoming on Thorin’s cheekbone and by tomorrow they’ll probably have matching black eyes. There are probably more hiding under his clothing.

He wants to find some water and cloth and wipe it all away. Maybe add some scent or perfume to chase the smell of death away as well.

“Get some rest, lad,” Oin tells him, dragging him from his thoughts, and nods towards the sleeping prince. “You need sleep as much as he does.”

He’s too tired to find his own tent and wouldn’t mind just staying in the chair and sleep like that, but when Oin pushes him towards Thorin he gives in. Dwalin still isn’t sure if he can sleep, but with a defeated sigh he crawls unto the low cot, not even bothering to take off his boots. Thorin’s eyes blink open, heavy and dark with exhaustion and grief. When he sees Dawlin he makes a low incoherent noise and burrows into his chest, his hands clutching at Dwalin’s tunic. Dwalin wraps his arms around Thorin and just holds on. He doesn’t know where they’ll go from here, but he knows that his place will always be at Thorin’s side.


End file.
